A Touch of Madness
by the risky business of writing
Summary: AU. Three years into his sentence, Sirius Black is transferred from Azkaban to Saint Mungo's Ward for the Criminally Insane. There, he meets India Stephens. Sirius/OC.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Just an idea I've been entertaining, finally seeing the light of day. I hope you'll find it interesting! Obviously, a lot of stuff is AU (there is no Ward for the Criminally Insane at Mungo's, as far as I know). Also, I'm not a doctor in any sense of the word so please be patient with some of my slip-ups and mistakes. Thanks!_

 _PS. The story takes place in the 80s._

* * *

Chapter 1

There was certainly a lot of commotion on the Fourth Floor that morning. Nurses and medics were talking in hushed tones in front of the bulletin boards. They seemed to be debating a matter of great concern.

India Stephens walked past them to the changing rooms. It was too early in the day for her to ask what all the fuss was about. She slipped into her lime green robes and opened her mail-box. Fresh patient charts were waiting for her careful perusal. On top of the thick stack, however, there was a special note from Miriam Strout, the Spell Damage Senior Healer.

 _Dear staffers,_

 _As I am sure you will soon find out, a new patient was brought in last night in the C.I. Ward. His notoriety will be a point of contention for many of you, but I wish to stress that we are_ _ **professionals**_ _first and civilians later. Our job is to heal and improve the lives of witches and wizards. Should any disruption be caused by the new arrival, I invite you to come speak to me personally. Enclosed you will find his personal file and the mediwizards I have selected for his care._

 _M.S._

India frowned. The C.I. Ward, better known as The Ward for the Criminally Insane, was almost perennially empty. Not because there was a shortage of mad men in the wizarding world, but because most of them were deemed fit for Azkaban. This was a rare occasion.

The C.I. Ward had been set up near the Janus Thickey Ward, which housed wizards and witches who were suffering from long-term spell damage. Both Wards remained closed at all times, and only a small handful of staffers were ever allowed in. The difference was that the C.I. Ward did not usually have occupants behind its locked doors.

India opened the attached file with an eagerness that might have made Madam Strout frown. But she _was_ very curious to see who the "notorious" patient might be.

 _ **Sirius Black**_

 _Birth: November 3, 1959_

 _Age: 25_

 _Sex: Male_

 _Race: Caucasian_

 _Blood: Pure_

 _Current Residence: Azkaban, Solitary Confinement_

 _Permanent Residence: 12 Grimmauld Place_

 _Next of Kin: Cygnus Black III, Andromeda Tonks, REDACTED, REDACTED_

 _Present Condition: psychoneurosis, mental alienation, obsessive-compulsive disorder manifested through violent intrusive thoughts, psychopathic disorder_

 _Medical history: fractured fibula at age 13, fractured ribs at age 21, usage of magical opiums up to incarceration._

The file went on in a similar fashion with all manner of prescient details.

India continued reading methodically, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.

 _Sirius Black._

No wonder people out there were gossiping furiously. This was beyond unexpected. Of all the famous convicts and criminals the wizarding world had to offer, Black was the most notorious in recent years. He had single-handedly betrayed half of the Order of the Phoenix to the Dark Lord, leading to the death of the Potters and Peter Pettigrew. Everyone knew the sordid details. All that had remained of Pettigrew was a _finger_. Black had been found at the scene of the crime, laughing maniacally, saying he'd kill him six ways from Sunday. He had not shown a lick of remorse. In fact, he had claimed innocence for a short while. And then he had given up on defending himself. His trial had been a thing of nightmares. He had acted out so violently they had to restrain him with spells and devices which had long been considered obsolete. And now, three years after his conviction, three years after solitary confinement in Azkaban, he was coming to stay at Saint Mungo's.

The reasons must be unfathomable. Why would such a transfer be authorized?

She reached the end of the file where several healers' names were stamped in red.

And sure enough, India Stephens was among them. She was the only Junior Healer on the list. She _was_ Madam Strout's protégé, after all. This could be good news; being selected for this task might mean she was ready to move up the ranks. But it could be equally bad. What if this was some kind of test and, should she fail, she would remain a Junior forever?

It was rather daunting. In fact, it was overwhelming. How would she even approach this case?

She had vague memories of Sirius Black. Vague was perhaps not the right word. "Terribly inaccurate" would be better. She had been a shy First Year when he was already a cocky Sixth Year, ruling the school with his Gryffindor band of troublemakers.

The Gryffindor band he had betrayed.

She had never spoken to him in person, but she had seen him in the Great Hall and around Hogwarts. It was hard not to notice him. He had been so magnetic as a teenager. You knew, just by looking at him, that he was destined for great things; a successful career and a life filled with adventure. Yes, he'd had trouble with his family, everyone knew it. No true Black had ever been sorted into Gryffindor. But no one believed he wouldn't land on his feet.

Well, he proved his family legacy right, didn't he?

India felt a bitter taste in her mouth. She remembered Peter Pettigrew too.

She closed the file shut.

* * *

The drip, drip, drip of the I.V. was like a regular rhythm in an otherwise chaotic medley. India couldn't stop staring. She had been allowed into the Ward after an hour of briefing. Madam Strout had made it clear they were there to help, but also _learn_. Learn what they could about and from Sirius Black. She had made it sound like a great educational experience.

"Think of it as a controlled experiment."

Madam Strout was nothing if not eternally confident.

So far, India's notes were empty. She was too captivated by his face.

He was sleeping – or more accurately put, had been sedated since morning. The nurses had tried to trim his beard, but stubborn patches of coarse hair still shadowed his features. Even without them, Sirius Black looked ten years older than he should have. His cheeks were gaunt and the colour of his skin was a sickening yellow. His hair was brittle and his bones protruded sharply out of his skin. No one could say Azkaban didn't take its toll on a young man.

She wondered, of course, what he would do when he woke up. How would he react?

Madam Strout had told them that Black had been made aware of his relocation. No one knew, however, if he would respond well to it.

India did not feel afraid. Even if he lashed out, his hands and legs were fastened with magical chains, invisible to the eye, but stronger than cold steel. And there were other restraints made available to them in the Ward.

The C.I. Ward was a large room split into four smaller areas, each sealed off from prying eyes by a magical barrier in the shape of a rudimentary hospital curtain. The air was fresh and clean, despite the lack of windows and the light was cool and comforting. It wasn't an unpleasant room, by any stretch of the imagination, but it gave one a sense of foreboding, since the furniture was minimal, and the walls were adorned with a plethora of strange Dark Objects – a security measure which was not encountered anywhere else in Saint Mungo's.

India stared into a slanted mirror above Black's bed and saw dark shadows instead of her own reflection.

She started jotting down a few observations, since she was certain Madam Strout would ask to see them later. From what she could glean, malnourishment and exhaustion (physical or otherwise) were the most telling symptoms of his condition. She had also noticed an inflammation in his right leg. His fever was elevated, too, which could be due to a myriad of factors. His pulse was also weak. The relocation must have caused some damage, internal and otherwise. She squinted at him. Was that a swelling in his throat?

She tiptoed up to him and deposited his chart at the foot of the bed.

India inhaled quickly and, before she could change her mind, she reached out and felt the ganglions at his throat. Just as she had suspected, they had swelled, which could be a sign of neuralgia or laryngitis –

She almost jumped out of her skin. He had opened his eyes and was staring at her.

India dropped her hands quickly. "Sorry."

She immediately felt stupid for apologizing. She was only doing her job. Not to mention, he _was_ a deranged murderer.

She looked up at his vitals board. Magical strains were running back and forth, charting the changes in his body. His pulse should have quickened after waking up, but it had only spiked a little. That was not good.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, stepping away from the bed.

Sirius Black kept staring at her, his face impassive.

"Can you talk?" she tried again, holding his chart like a shield in front of her chest.

He gave the briefest of nods. He could talk, he just _wouldn't_.

"You're in Saint Mungo's, Spell Damage Unit, to be exact." She wasn't about to spell out the name of the Ward.

He nodded again.

"I am your Healer, India," she continued, going through the rote lines she had memorized. "We will try…"

 _To make you better._

"… to improve your situation."

This time, he did not nod, but his lips seemed to draw back into a grimace.

"How does that sound?" she asked, shifting on the balls of her shoes.

Black opened his mouth an inch. One word came out, ragged and hoarse.

"Lies."

India blinked. " _Lies_? I am not lying."

There was an awkward silence after that. India contemplated continuing the argument and telling him she had no reason to lie, but he beat her to it.

"Water," he muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

India chewed on her lip. "Of course."

She took out her wand and approached the bed once more. He kept his eyes forward. She parted his lips with the tip of her wand and performed a silent Aguamenti. A small jet of water shot out into his mouth. He drank slowly, letting some of it dribble down his chin.

India stepped back again.

"You…are…the first," he managed to say, gritting his teeth.

"The first?"

"To give me water…when I asked…others wouldn't."

India opened her mouth to protest. What did he mean by that? Surely her colleagues would not have deprived him of water. Perhaps he had been particularly violent the previous night and they'd decided not to humour him. Or maybe he was lying.

 _Lies._

She closed her mouth. She shouldn't start a conversation with him anyway.

"Try and rest," she said, jotting down "slurred speech" in her observations.

"Hands…" he said after a few moments.

"Yes?"

"At my…throat."

India scratched at her arm. "Yes, well, I was trying to see if your ganglions are swollen –"

"Warm," he muttered and closed his eyes again.

India waited with her lips parted. The vitals did not indicate any change in his pulse, but soon, he was breathing regularly. He was, by all appearances, asleep.

Still, when she turned around and started walking away, she felt eyes on her back.

She rubbed her hands together. They were, indeed, warm.

* * *

"What was he like? Did he have that crazy look in his eye?" Rose Angley, a fellow Junior from the Second Floor and her best friend in all of Saint Mungo's, asked during lunch break. They were sitting at their usual table, away from the crowd.

"Did he rave about killing Pettigrew again? I read in an article that all he ever talked about in Azkaban was revenge," Rose added, biting into her apple.

India shook her head. "You can't trust the papers. I'm pretty sure they weren't there in his cell with him. And I can't say much about his mental state. But…no, he was quite normal."

" _Normal_?"

"He didn't rave or give me the crazy eye, is what I mean. He just seemed like an ordinary man."

"Well, he isn't. I hope you remember that," Rose pointed out.

"Hard to forget," India mumbled. "Everyone's talking about his murderous history. Although, he didn't strike me as particularly murderous."

"He doesn't have to strike you as anything, he just _is_. You'll be careful, won't you?" Rose appealed to her, dangling her spoon like a pendulum.

"I'm always careful," she protested.

"Right, but you've got that pesky Ravenclaw tendency to prod into stuff you should leave well alone."

India rolled her eyes. "And you've got a Gryffindor tendency to over-dramatize. I'm one of his doctors, I can't _not_ prod."

"Fine, but don't cry to me when the only thing left of you is a finger…."

India hit her friend in the arm. "Jokes like that are why you work on the dragon pox floor."

* * *

It was well and good to make jokes with Rosy over lunch, but India did feel a bit queasy. She hadn't lied to her friend; Sirius Black did not strike horror in her veins. But he was _strange_.

She wasn't exactly looking forward to her next shift with him, but she was determined to do it well and find out the most she could about him as a patient.

She had heard whispers in the staff rooms that his arrival here was Dumbledore's work. The Headmaster had always been "woefully" partial to Black and his charm.

India didn't know what to believe. Sirius Black had long ago stopped being charming. But she supposed, if anyone could succeed in removing a high-profile convict from Azkaban, it was Dumbledore.

She just couldn't figure out what would happen next. Would they simply "treat" Black and send him back to Azkaban? It almost seemed cruel to heal him of his current ailments only to send him back to an environment that was meant to slowly kill him. Cruelty was what he deserved, yet…even in practical terms, it would be a waste.

Then, was he supposed to stay here forever, like the patients in the Janus Thickey Ward?

Madam Strout had been infuriatingly enigmatic about his sojourn. She had told them to do their jobs and keep their heads low.

"All will be made clear in time," she had said.

But India suspected nothing would be clear and simple about Sirius Black.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: hello again and thank you for giving the story a chance! I hope you enjoy the second chapter!_

* * *

Chapter 2

India was tinkering with the flame under her cauldron when she heard the two mediwizards whispering in her close vicinity. She was trying to prepare a Sleeping Draught for one of the more restless patients on the Janus Thickey Ward, but she couldn't help eavesdropping on the conversation happening at the next table.

"…honestly, are we going to treat You-Know-Who himself if he ever gets a sore throat?"

"It's bloody ludicrous, is what it is. I've got friends whose family are dead because of this twat and others like him. We should be able to break the Hippocratic Oath if we're dealing with bloody Death Eaters."

"Yeah, but you know Strout. She's hungry for fame. She's probably convinced she can cure evil."

India dropped the lavender sprigs into the cauldron. She wrestled with her bottom lip in thought. It was true that Madam Strout was a very ambitious, very _exacting_ superior, but she also cared a great deal about the hospital and its patients. It wasn't just a job for her. It was her life. She was dedicated enough to do certain things other Healers wouldn't. Like take in Sirius Black.

Most people, including her colleagues, thought she was being unwise. India hadn't made up her mind yet. She looked up to Miriam Strout a great deal, but if she were being honest with herself, she wasn't sure she wanted to _be_ her.

On that note, India didn't know what she was meant to be or do; she just knew she wanted to heal people. The reasons for this desire were multifaceted. Yes, she wanted to end people's pain, but she also wanted to see _why_ they hurt, she wanted to find the source of that pain and explore it. A Ravenclaw never stops being a Ravenclaw, after all.

The two mediwizards, whom she recognized as Denbright and Mather, had clearly been Gryffindors in their day, and the moral uncertainty of this ordeal bothered them greatly. She understood their outrage perfectly well, but she could put it aside for more important things. You could learn many things from Sirius Black as a _patient_. The Death Eater movement was on the rise; the Daily Prophet said many young men and women were being drawn to it, but they never explained _why_. Well, here was a chance to find out. Now that Black was in their care, she wanted to know what made him, and others like him, tick.

Of course, she'd think twice before sharing that thought with anyone else. She knew exactly what reactions she would get. It _was_ difficult to draw a line between a medical case and a public menace. And she wasn't made of stone. She got very sad when she remembered her school years. It would have been easier if she had been young enough not to see Black as a carefree teenager.

"Yeah, well, she's going to learn there's no cure for someone as depraved as Black," Denbright replies moodily, drawing India away from her thoughts.

 _As depraved as Black._

It didn't seem so strange anymore that Black had told her the Healers hadn't been very nice to him. How could they be when there were friends and family involved in the struggle against the Dark Lord? And yet, they _were_ mediwizards. They were not supposed to do further damage to the patient.

The question was, where did the damage end and the healing begin?

She made the rest of the Sleeping Draught in troubled silence.

* * *

Her next shift with Black was scheduled for Thursday evening. She noticed that the initial batch of Healers assigned to him had shrunk by at least a half. Either some medics had signed off, or Strout had found them unfit. She did not find Denbright's name on the list anymore, but, curiously, Mather had remained.

Meanwhile, the hospital was trying to function under everyday circumstances, a task which was rendered very difficult by a plethora of inquisitive reporters. The press had got wind of Saint Mungo's latest patient and it was clamoring for interviews and testimonials from the medical staff. Every Healer had been forbidden to discuss matters with journalists, under penalty of dismissal. This, however, didn't stop the small merchants and vendors in the Visitors' Tearoom and Shop from giving anonymous accounts to whoever was willing to pay.

That's how she came upon an article in _Quill-Scratch_ \- an ill-reputed gossip rag - detailing the "horrific" condition of Sirius Black and his subsequent hospitalization.

 _A madness so profound and shocking that many of his Healers simply could not bear to be in the same room with the man who embodied such physical horror; eyes bulging from his sockets, bloodshot and desperate to kill, teeth gnashing in an effort to bite the attendants and set himself free from his own demons…._

India snorted into her tea. She knew exactly how much physical horror Black inspired, and it was close to zero. Perhaps he was intimidating and terrifying when he was at his most powerful, but as it was, you could knock him down with a feather.

This was confirmed on Thursday, when she saw the same weak, bed-ridden Sirius Black as the week before. Certainly no demons afoot.

This time, whoever had been in charge of shaving him had done a better job, but dark swatches of violet and red adorned his jaw in a way that did not seem accidental. There were also a myriad of small cuts on his throat. Someone had been careless with the shaving spell. On purpose.

India looked over his updated chart and checked his vitals with the tip of her wand. She felt a ticklish feeling on the back of her neck. The curtains surrounding the small bed area, which were now partly open thanks to her, emitted a very strong strain of magic. She knew this kind of magical barrier was necessary for safety reasons, but she wondered if it tampered with Black's health. Normally, these barriers should not affect a patient's condition, but security measures must have been heightened. She made a mental note to research it later.

Black slowly opened his eyes and regarded her passively.

He didn't seem to recognize her at first.

India stepped back a little. "Good evening. How are you feeling?"

He made a strained effort to sit up higher, but he only ended up falling further down into the pillow.

"Not great, as you can see," he mumbled, lifting up his hands in a show of futility.

Under vastly different circumstances, India might've found this display amusing.

She approached the bed carefully and tapped his pillow with her wand. It re-arranged itself more comfortably under his head, although he still remained in a slack position.

"Thank you. I remember you now. Warm hands."

His voice sounded less hoarse than the previous time and his speech was coherent, but there was a fleeting quality to it, as if at any moment, he might lose it.

She folded her arms, hiding her hands. "My name is India. How is your throat feeling today? Still swollen?"

"Not as much," he replied, staring up at the ceiling. "Are you going to check?"

India took a reluctant step forward. "I have instructed the nurses to administer you potions for laryngitis and other respiratory infections."

He looked at her oddly. Like he didn't quite believe her.

She reached forward and touched his throat again. His swelling had diminished considerably, but not enough.

"I will recommend a stronger dosage," she said, eyeing his chest with interest. She could see some of the ribs even through the hospital gown. She tried not to dwell on that.

"We should probably also take a closer look at your lungs too. I'll order an X-Ray."

Her hands unwittingly drifted to his sternum and started palpating it absent-mindedly.

Black flinched a little at the contact, which promptly made India stop.

"Do you feel any pain there?"

"Mm."

"Mm _what_?" she demanded.

"I probably shouldn't say," he rasped, staring over her head.

"I advise you to tell your Healers everything."

Black seemed to shrug. "In that case, I _do_ feel pain there. From he bruises."

India blinked. "But I recall you were treated for minor lacerations and contusions when you were admitted…"

"These are fresh," he replied sardonically, dark eyes watching her.

India swallowed. "Lift up your shirt, please."

He complied, although his hands shook a little as he did it. And as he had said, there were two fresh yellow bruises under his ribs, on the left side. Small, and probably not very serious, but still upsetting.

"How…did you come by those?"

He shrugged. "Happened during shaving."

India's eyes latched onto the violet marks on his jaw. "What happened exactly?"

"This crotchety fellow was trying to cut my throat. At least that's how it felt when he put his wand here. So... I pushed him back a little. He responded accordingly."

India clenched her teeth. "Do you know his name?"

"No."

"Can you describe him to me?" She had an inkling it might be Denbright he was talking about.

"I…it's all right. I'm fine."

India blinked. "It's not about that, Mr. Black, it's that this isn't hospital policy. I'll have a talk with my colleagues and the nurses–"

"Please _don't_."

The sudden imploration in his tone made her pause.

He shut his eyes briefly. "I really…don't want to stir more trouble."

She understood from his words what he meant. If the other Healers found out he was complaining, it would make matters worse for him.

India frowned. "I'll talk to the Senior Healer, Madam Strout. She will tell them not to take out their hostility on you."

His expression was cynical; he clearly had no faith in her intervention, and India wasn't sure if she was that confident either. Black was the Death Eater of the hour. People would line up just to kill him.

He cocked his head feebly to the side. "Why aren't you doing that?"

"What?" India asked confused.

"Taking out your hostility on me."

She coughed, rearranging her robes. "I'm a professional. And I don't accept violence."

"But you _do_ feel hostility?" he tested.

"What I feel isn't relevant," she replied, reverting to the script she was familiar with.

"How can it not be?" he asked and raised his bruised jaw.

India took out her wand. "I'm going to heal those for you. That's what I do."

And that was an effective end to the conversation, but the way he watched her as she pulled his chin forward certainly spoke volumes. He seemed both grateful for her ministrations and a little suspicious. Exactly what was _her_ agenda? She supposed he was being smart, questioning her intentions. She wasn't, after all, bereft of them.

The skin of his face felt like old paper, although there was a softer quality buried underneath the stubble and cuts. She could feel the steady pulse in his aorta as she maneuvered his neck to the side. It was disturbing how close she could be to someone so revolting. Although, she was not very revolted. He felt like any other patient. Perhaps she needed to work on that.

When she was done, she noticed he had closed his eyes and his expression was more relaxed and serene.

She couldn't help a small smile. "Better?"

He murmured an assent.

"Madam Strout says I have the finest touch when it comes to scars and lesions."

She did not know why she had felt the need to point that out. She felt foolish, standing there, watching him relish her performance.

He opened his eyes again, but his gaze was hooded. "I believe her."

India scratched the back of her arm. "Well, then, my check-up is almost complete. I've written down the dosages that need to be administered for next week. But what I want to do now is… um, ask you a few more questions. If you don't mind."

He heaved a weary sigh. "So _that's_ why you healed me."

India's demeanor changed. "What? Absolutely not." Her cheeks felt very warm all of a sudden.

Black shook his head. "Lies."

There it was again, that word he had used during their first meeting too. Lies, lies everywhere.

India stiffened. "I simply did my job. I _didn't_ do it just to lower your defenses, if that's what you're worried about."

"My defenses," he chuckled darkly. "I am thoroughly defenseless."

India wanted to argue more in her _own_ defense, but realized she shouldn't play into his hand. He was a tricky one, Sirius Black. She conjured a chair and sat down a few feet away from his bed. She decided to wait for him to speak first.

"I'm sorry," he issued at length. "It's just a lot to take in."

India poised the quill against the paper. "What is?"

"This. Saint Mungo. A few moons ago I was sitting in a dank cell with no light or breathable air."

She shivered slightly. "That must have been quite upsetting."

"Oh, no, it was a regular walk in the park," he countered smartly, and she thought she heard an old arrogant echo in his voice, as if there was still something of his old self buried underneath.

"But to go from that to this…Well, at least the people didn't change. Everyone still hates me. Except, "everyone" aren't rotting wreaths of death."

He was talking about the Dementors. She wondered if it would be wise to steer the conversation in that direction. But he continued, before she could ask.

"….I almost miss it."

"What do you miss?" she asked nonplussed.

"Azkaban."

India looked startled.

Black snorted to himself. "I _know_. But in Azkaban you don't have hope. It's…horrible, but it's final. Here, though…who knows, I might get ideas."

"What sort of ideas?" she prodded.

He shrugged. "Stupid ideas. Anyway, I'm tired. I wish to sleep."

India opened her mouth to protest, but he was already turning on his side, effectively shutting her out. It was hopeless to go on, but there was always next week. It was a good start. Better than nothing, she told herself.

She got up awkwardly. "Well, then, I'll see you next time, Mr. Black."

He made no reply, but as she passed through the curtains, she almost thought she heard a soft "Sirius."

India wondered what he meant by that. Did he hate to be called "Mr. Black"? Or did he dislike the reminder of his family?

In any case, she was not about to call him Sirius.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: hello again, sorry for the wait, and thank you for your reviews, they're much appreciated. This chapter borrows a little from Prisoner of Azkaban, the movie, because I like a minor detail they gave to Sirius and decided to keep in the fic for various plot and character reasons. You'll see what I mean. Anyway, please let me know what you think!_

* * *

Chapter 3

" _Unbelievable_. Isn't it enough that Denbright has been sacked?" Mather complained out loud in front of Madam Strout.

India rolled her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. He has only been demoted."

"To the Third Floor!" he retorted, growing a darker shade of red. "To take care of "uncontrollable giggling" and other related nonsense. He's as good as sacked."

"A Healer is still a Healer, no matter the nature of the assignment," Madam Strout interjected severely. "I am frankly shocked to hear this language from you, Doctor Mather. I would certainly refrain from speaking so freely if I were you. I gave _clear_ instructions to our staff that we should show the _utmost_ degree of professionalism in this matter and you have failed us."

Mather couldn't conceal his outrage anymore. "Sirius Black is a Death Eater! Denbright's girlfriend, Lucy? Her uncle and aunt were _killed_ in cold blood by this monster and others like him! And we're just supposed to pretend this is business as usual? We shouldn't have to accommodate him! He belongs in Azkaban! And as for you, Stephens, it's honestly disgusting how you defend him -"

"I'm _not_ defending him!" India protested hotly. "But I don't think we should pay violence with violence! We're better than that!"

"Oh, so now you think you're morally superior to us; you, the Healer who has taken _pity_ upon the poor, sad Death Eater –"

"I have _not_ taken pity on him, you are distorting the facts and casting aspersions–" India cried back.

"That is quite enough, the both of you!" Miriam Strout thundered, rising stately from her seat. "Doctor Mather, you are on a period of probation. If you decide to follow in Doctor Denbright's footsteps, you will find yourself swiftly working alongside him on the Third Floor. Should that prospect be beneath you, you can always find a job elsewhere. And as for you, Doctor Stephens, as a Junior Healer, you ought to have consulted with your seniors and myself before implementing treatment changes. Administering a Sleeping Draught to your patient out of bounds, it was not a risk worth taking."

India looked down at her feet, thoroughly chastened by Madam Strout's words.

"I wasn't trying to take risks," she said humbly. "I was assigned to be one of Mr. Black's Healers and I thought I had the authority to…do what I did. I didn't see it as a harmful measure. The patient complained of fatigue and inability to sleep. I had already prepared a fresh batch for the Janus Thickey Ward. I just wanted to speed up the healing process."

"No," Mather muttered scathingly. "You were just trying to make him more comfortable."

"I wasn't thinking of that! I was just… being practical," India argued, faltering slightly in her denial. The truth was, she _might_ have wanted to make things less painful for Black. But that was only as a means of getting him to talk.

In the following days that she went to see him, she did not have much luck prying useful information out of him. Black was not very chatty, not only because he was suspicious, but also because he was always tired. He suffered from violent nightmares, which he would hardly discuss with her, but which kept him up at night. She suspected there were other factors involved, probably having to do with psychological trauma, but Black was stubbornly silent on the matter. The only way she could find out more about him, as a case study, was to help him sleep. Of course, telling this to Madam Strout would incur a whole other series of questions, such as "Why are you trying to find out more about him?"

"Regardless of intentions, the Sleeping Draught is not a suitable drug for a patient as unstable as Mr. Black. I expected you to know this, _India_ ," Madam Strout observed pointedly.

India had, in fact, known; which is why she had concocted a less diluted version of the potion, but admitting to that would have gotten her in bigger trouble. She chewed on her lip in remorse. Strout did not usually call her by first name unless she was upset.

"I am deeply sorry, Madam Strout. Will I be demoted too?"

"No, not quite yet. You are a valuable Junior. You will be given a second chance."

India let out a breath she did not know she had been holding.

But Mather only sneered. "It is good to know that helping a Death Eater is not a punishable crime."

* * *

India had received quite a lecture from Madam Strout about proper treatment care, but she did not expect to receive a second one from her friend, Rosy.

" _How_ could you even think of doing that?!" Rosy demanded, drawing the attention of half the tables around them.

India shushed her promptly. "Will you keep it down? It's bad enough the other Juniors know. I don't want to get a reputation."

"No, I will not keep it down, and your reputation should be the least of your concerns right now, since you have clearly gone mental. I don't know if it's Black's influence or –"

"Look," India interjected impatiently, "I was stupid, all right? I thought helping him sleep would get him to open up more during our sessions."

"Open up about what?" Rosy demanded.

"About…you know, his past, his beginnings. How it all started. I wanted to gouge his mental state in anamnesis. I read up on Gilbert's theories of Anamnesis, and he says that wizards and witches inadvertently create magical blockages in their brains whenever any painful memories are unearthed –"

"I can't believe you are looking into this!" Rosy protested, scandalized.

"He may be blocking the memory of his conversion to the Dark Arts," India persisted, undeterred. "I mean, one does not get born a Death Eater, does one? One may have the potential for it, given one's family and background, but nothing can clinically predict such an outcome. So I wanted to find out –"

"How to make a Death Eater?" Rosy drawled sarcastically.

"You mock, but I've also been reading up on cults and cult mentality," India said, extracting a book from her bag.

"Oh, Merlin save us," Rosy muttered, shaking her head. "You know, other people pick up a hobby."

"And even with a powerful leader like You Know Who," India continued, ignoring her comments, "it still does not make sense why some young people are more drawn to him than others. I mean not _all_ Slytherins joined him, and Black was a Gryffindor."

Rosy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you remember when we were at school and you wanted to find out how the owls were capable of delivering packages to unknown destinations, and you stayed up in the owlery like a crazy person and monitored their habits?"

India scoffed. "I wasn't crazy."

"You're right, that was child's play. I frankly wish you could go back to studying owls instead of _this_."

India shook her head. "I won't try to give him any more _helpful_ potions, all right? But I'm _not_ giving up on this."

"Why not? What do you stand to gain from it?" Rosy questioned, exasperated.

"We all stand to gain a lot!" India protested. "Instead of sending everyone to Azkaban and letting them rot there, we could get at the root of the problem and prevent pointless tragedies."

Her friend regarded her skeptically. "You know I love you, Indie, but I've known you for a while now. This isn't a humanitarian act. You're not trying to save the wizarding world. You're just an incurable busybody."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"You heard me. You're the most curious person I know."

"That's rich coming from you, you love to gossip!"

"Yeah, but I don't pry like you do. I do it for fun. You tend to develop…er…obsessions."

India huffed. "That's such an exaggeration. I'm hardly _obsessed_. We're Healers, we're supposed to get at the bottom of things."

"The problem is, you don't know when you've hit bottom, Indie."

"Well, I'm sure you'll let me know," India replied tartly. "Come on, I'm not harming anyone."

"Other than yourself, and potentially Black, you mean," Rosy observed. "Although, I suppose I wouldn't mind the second that much."

"I'm not going to harm him, I'm not like Denbright and Mather! I'm trying to help him. Trying to help _everyone_ , actually."

Rosy narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

India threw up her hands. " _Fine_. I'll admit it. I…I am doing this for myself too."

"Ha. So you admit you're developing an obsession?"

India smiled ruefully. "Never."

* * *

"I heard you got into trouble because of me."

India looked up from the chart she was perusing. Her expression might have been qualified as "deer caught in the headlights".

Black's face betrayed nothing, but she could have sworn his dark eyes were more brilliant than usual.

"Where did you hear that?"

He shrugged. "Overheard some of the nurses on the ward."

India rested her hands on her hips. "What did they say exactly?"

"Mm," he hummed uncomfortably. "I'd rather not repeat it word for word. But…I gathered they didn't like it that you gave me something for my nightmares."

India suppressed a sigh. Suppose gossip couldn't be helped.

"No, they did not."

"I'm sorry…" he trailed off, looking sideways. "I didn't mean to put you in that position."

India frowned. "It was my choice, Mr. Black. _I_ gave you the Sleeping Draught. I'll live with the consequences."

She saw him flinch momentarily at the use of his name.

"Still. You didn't have to. Thank you," he murmured.

India smiled uneasily. "No use thanking me now. I can't administer it anymore. So you're back to square one, I'm afraid. Although your recovery has shown very positive signs, recently."

Black raised himself a little against the pillow. "It's the thought that counts, as they always say."

 _Well…actions count too, especially yours_ , she thought grimly.

"So then," she continued perfunctorily, "how are you feeling today, Mr. Black?"

She saw the familiar flicker in his eyes, the aversion that the name inspired.

He said he felt sleepy and tired, but a little stronger than the last time she had checked on him. As she drew her wand over his vitals, she spoke quietly to him,

"You really hate the name, don't you?"

He blinked, startled.

"What?"

" _Black_ …you don't like it."

He snorted wearily. "What gave you that idea?"

India chewed on her lip in thought. She felt an idea hatching. Something for which Rosy might scold her later. But it was less foolish than administering him sleeping potions.

"What if we made a deal?"

He regarded her attentively. "A deal?"

India nodded. "I _could_ call you Sirius from now on."

Black narrowed his eyes slightly. "In exchange for…?"

"Three reasons why you hate your family name," she replied promptly before she lost her nerve.

She was surprised to hear him chuckle gloomily. "Impressive. Were you a Slytherin by any chance?"

India flushed a little. "Ravenclaw, actually. And I don't see how –"

"Only three reasons?" he interrupted her.

She smiled in a show of assurance. "Only three."

"You promise?"

"I do," she said firmly.

"Not that I trust you very much…Granted, you've been much nicer than the rest, but niceness _has_ fooled me in the past," he commented with a resentful edge to his voice.

India frowned. She had rarely heard him sound angry. "What do you mean? Who was it that fooled you?"

"Nice try. All right. I'll take the deal. Do you want to shake on it?" he asked sardonically.

But India actually raised her hand obligingly. She had read in her books that such gestures usually encouraged trust between patient and doctor.

He chewed on his lip for a moment or two, before raising his own more feeble hand and gripping hers.

The contact was disturbing, on both ends, but not completely unpleasant. His palm was dry and cool, hers was warm and soft. The touch seemed to last a bit longer than necessary, mainly because she was distracted by his fingers. She noticed his nails were bitten to the quick and that there were small black engravings around the knuckles. She had read in his file that he had received several tattoos, both in and out of Azkaban, but she was still curious to see them up close. She knew he sported a few on his chest and shoulders – most of them were Ancient Runes symbols. The Aurors had studied them to see if they offered any information on You Know Who, but most of them turned out to be gibberish. Except for an alchemical symbol by his sternum. It was meant to signify the element known as Antimony. It had few magical properties, except that it was generally poisonous. Some Aurors believed that was a sure sign of his collusion with the Dark Arts, others were not so sure. India made a mental note to study the photos of his tattoos more carefully.

"These aren't tattoos," he said, almost reading her mind. She started at the sound of his voice and released his hold.

"Sorry?"

"The marks around my knuckles. You get those from Dementors."

"How…how exactly does that happen?" she asked in a small voice.

"Oh. It happens if you shove your hand inside their wreaths. Wouldn't recommend it."

India's mouth fell open. "You did _what_?" Her professionalism was momentarily forgotten.

Black smiled darkly. "One day I'd had enough of their menacing hovering and I decided to antagonize them, like an idiot. It was the last time I did that."

India shook her head. "No wonder you were sorted in Gryffindor."

The words had a strange effect on him. His lips twitched involuntarily and his eyes widened; his whole expression was, for one brief moment, more vulnerable than she had ever witnessed it. But the moment did not last.

"So. Three reasons why I hate my family, was it?" he asked, tapping his fingers against his quilt.

India nodded, taking a seat on the chair next to the bed.

"Number one. And you should jot this down. They're a bunch of tossers who only care about blood purity."

"Does that mean you don't share their views on that?" she questioned, ready to write down his given answer.

"Wouldn't want to be a tosser, would I?" he deflected humorously, but his voice sounded hollow rather than amused.

"Number two," he continued, not giving her time to ask anything else. "They're a bunch of inbreds who force you to marry your sister or your cousin, depending on the mood and time of day."

India stifled a snort. "That's typical of most pureblood families."

Black rounded on her. "Don't be so sure. Some are all talk. But the Blacks never fail to add a little incest to every family gathering."

India made an effort not to laugh. "That sounds ghastly."

"It does, especially if Cousin Wulfrida is twenty years your senior and sports a rather bushy beard."

This time, she couldn't refrain from chuckling out loud.

"You laugh, but she started eyeing me ever since I turned thirteen," he drawled, eyes awash in mischief.

"Stop it," India gasped, practically wheezing.

"And number three," he continued, smirking, "they're the kind of people who destroy anyone that stands in their way, including their own family. _Especially_ their own family."

 _That_ had the effect of instantly sobering her up. Her smile vanished.

"I know…you were not welcome in your house anymore," she said awkwardly.

"Read that in my file, did you? They got it wrong. I was the one who ran away."

India didn't argue with him. She suspected there was great animosity on both sides, for various reasons (while pureblood families were notorious for harboring Dark wizards, they did not like it when their offspring were actually _caught_ ), but she found it hard to believe that he could break from his family so completely.

She swallowed thickly. "The Blacks are a rather large clan. Was there _no one_ there you had a connection with?"

The question caught him off-guard. His eyes shifted painfully, as if he couldn't bear to think of it.

He cleared his throat in irritation. "I gave you three reasons. That's enough."

India heaved a sigh. "Fair's fair." She didn't want to push him. Already she had made a lot of progress. She couldn't wait to analyze her notes in the privacy of her office.

But she felt a small discomfort about it now. She knew she was doing it for the right reasons, but getting to know him was proving rather painful in some ways.

She checked his vitals once more and administered a small injection to help with his breathing. The X-Ray of his lungs showed that they were congested; there were some deposits in his middle lobes that would need to be cleansed using special magical serums. With that being taken care of, however, she had noticed there was something odd about his intracranial tension. Something which hadn't shown up on the board before.

India lowered the chart. "How would you feel about a brain scan, Sirius?"

He opened his mouth halfway through her question, then closed it again when he heard the sound of his first name. They started at each other for a moment in silence. India felt stupid. Maybe she shouldn't have made this deal. She couldn't _really_ call him that, could she? It was too personal, too –

"The Aurors…performed a few spells on my mind when I was arrested," he said softly, as if not trusting his voice.

"If there's anything wrong with my brain now, it's probably because of that," he added.

India frowned. "I know they administered Veritaserum, among other things."

He grunted. "I was what you'd call _hysterical_ at the time. You probably read the news. The potion wasn't, er, effective, they had to use other means."

She shivered slightly. "Yes…I heard. I'll order a scan, anyway."

He raised a hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes as if he wanted to wipe away a bad memory.

"Why are you doing this?" he said at length.

India pulled a wayward lock from her face. "Doing what?"

"It's all the same, isn't it? I'll always be a _bloody_ convict, here or elsewhere. It doesn't matter. Why are you treating me better? What do you stand to gain from this?"

She looked down guiltily. "Maybe I think you can be salvaged."

He gave a cold laugh. "You're right, you weren't a Slytherin. You're a terrible liar."

India knitted her eyebrows in annoyance. He was mistaking her. She hadn't meant "salvaged" in any idealistic sense of the word. She didn't think he could be returned to any former innocence. But she did believe he could be rehabilitated. _Sort of._

"And treating you worse will solve what exactly?" she replied archly.

"It would make _sense_ , at least," he returned.

"No, it wouldn't. The damage is done. The only thing to do now is to make sure it isn't made worse."

He gave a big snort. "Oh, so you think if I'm treated badly, I'll just snap and go on a murderous spree again?"

India felt a sharp tingle run down her spine. He made it sound like a trivial matter. Easy as sport. She remembered who he was.

"You can rest easy," he said, noticing the sudden paleness in her face. "My killing days are over. Even before they began."

 _Even before they began?_ She wondered what he meant by that.

His eyes watched her like a bird of prey watches a mouse.

She coughed and straightened up, stepping into the professional mask she knew so well. "You wouldn't be able to start much of a killing spree. We have you detained very well."

He stared at the way she gripped her quill. "You sound very confident."

"I am," she said, raising her chin in defiance. "I'm not afraid of you."

He smiled a sad smile, devoid of smugness or ill intentions. "You don't really fit here do you, India? You're a little strange. Like me. That's what the nurses were saying anyway."

She felt a sudden lump in her throat. "Our time is up, I'm afraid. See you next time, _Sirius_."

She did not wait to see his reaction or hear his reply. She hurried out of the ward, counting her breaths one at a time.


End file.
